


I Have Something to Tell You

by handwritten (onefromanotherworld)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Light Angst, M/M, Not Happy, One Shot, Sherlock has bad timing, Sorry Not Sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-04
Updated: 2013-08-04
Packaged: 2017-12-22 08:54:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,905
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/911312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onefromanotherworld/pseuds/handwritten
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Standing in the dark parking lot in front of the man he loved and the woman said man loved in turn, Sherlock considered that maybe, for once, he should have listened to his brother’s warnings. Just from seeing the three of them, an observant person could notice that neither of their days had gone according to plan."</p><p>Sherlock is finally back. He, John, and Mary have each an announcement to make over dinner. Things don't go exactly as planned.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Have Something to Tell You

**Author's Note:**

> Based on the teaser preview of Season 3. Probably not the most original, but I enjoyed writing it.

Standing in the dark parking lot in front of the man he loved and the woman said man loved in turn, Sherlock considered that maybe, for once, he should have listened to his brother’s warnings. Just from seeing the three of them, an observant person could notice that neither of their days had gone according to plan.

While John was trying to find his voice again, he took a moment to remember the night inside the restaurant. He had entered the fancy venue not an hour before. After taking of his Belstaff coat, he had gone through the double doors that a pair of well-trained ushers had promptly opened. He had felt light, happy, more human and more himself than he had allowed to be in the past 30 months. He had already gone and told the news of his return to Mrs. Hudson first, who had almost thrown the saucepan she was washing when he entered her kitchen; Molly was the next, and she was merely happy to see than he had returned in one piece; Lestrade had been torn between punching him in the face and hugging him like a prodigal son; Mycroft, of course, merely acknowledged his return, gave him his proper attire, John’s location, and warned him against going to find him so soon but offered no more in the form of an explanation. Sherlock had taken in his surroundings: an elegant restaurant, 4 stars, it was evident that John was celebrating something with his girlfriend in turn. It would have stricken him as odd and rung some warning bells had he not known that John was doing much better economically since his, Sherlock’s, fall. According to the reports he got on him, he had invested himself in the work, trying to move on with his life. It certainly had proven fruitful in the end. So Sherlock had not panicked over the fact that he was having an important dinner in a restaurant of such high class, it was merely logical to do so now that he could afford it. Maybe they could go somewhere similar in the future.

He had asked for a table for one in the line of sight of John’s so as to find the right moment to finally approach him, hoping that the public environment would diminish his angry outburst. He had even dared to pass right in front of his table in the hopes of the doctor noticing him and shortening the wait but the man had yet to learn how to observe. Sherlock had taken in all the information he could from his vantage point, such as his almost-new black suit, it was evident he only used it in special occasions; his black tie, which he had had to tie at least three times before it seemed right, he had been nervous then; the insistent look to the entrance from those blue eyes he had missed so much; the way he prerused over and over again his menu in an attempt to have something to do with his hands —definitely nervous—; how his moustache retained droplets of the sips of water he took everytime he finished re-reading the menu; the way his tongue took the droplets off and mosturized his lips before he started practicing a speech for the upteenth time and how his left hand, which he longed to touch, kept reassuring him of the presence of an important object in his jacket’s pocket. He took note of all this, avoided acknowledging the presence of the moustache because it signaled something Sherlock was not ready to recognize, he took note and breathed out an ‘Oh’ as realization dawned on him. He could feel his face falling down, his hope shattering to pieces as well as the heart he would never acknowledge to have in spite everything he had done for those close to him. For a moment he thought of going away. At first he had reckoned that John wouldn’t mind him showing up in an anniversary dinner or something equally dull, but this was not an anniversary, it was a celebration of something to come and, as much as John could have had missed him and welcome him now after three years, his presence would certainly not be that appreciated in these circumstances. Curiosity, however, made him stay a little longer. He simply had to see who had managed to make ‘Three-continents’ Watson settle down. A small part of him thought ‘it doesn’t matter really, it wasn’t you’.

He stayed and waited against good thinking. He ordered a small start, for, even if he still hadn’t the best eating habits, these years had taught him the importance of eating something when he had the opportunity. He ate and drank a glass of wine, trying to supress the nerves he was now sharing with John on the other side of the room. This woman certainly knew how to build expectation by arriving more than fashionably late, or maybe John had arrived too early due to his own anxiety. Finally, after almost half an hour, he saw John’s eyes brighten up, a smile spreading on his face, his shoulders squaring ready for the battle, he got up and kissed a blonde woman welcome, he pulled her chair instead of the waiter and sat back again, nervousness evident only to Sherlock. While they made small talk, the detective turned his attention to the woman, inspecting, cataloguing. It was evident she had taken her time getting ready too. He noticed the dress first, it was new and showed her cleavage in a flattering yet discreet manner; she had had her nails done the pevious day with a simple and elegant design, the length was short so she needed to work with her hands; her hair was down and straightened, which meant that she probably wore her hair up, probably for practical reasons; a twinkling spot on her forearm told him that she was used to work with glitter and didn’t notice or cared anymore when she wasn’t able to wash it off completely. He noticed she went right to the vegetarian portion of the menu. Every time she turned to see John she smiled, even more when they turned to see each other at the same time. John kept touching the pocket of his jacket as if it was an anchor; she never noticed. She was nervous too, every once in a while she made the motion to bite her index nail but contained herself mostly, a habit from childhood then. She had tried at least three lipstick tones and a ring before deciding to not wear jewelry on her hands at all. Sherlock wasn’t sure yet whether it was because she wasn’t used to it or whether she had an inkling to what John was going to ask her this night. She kept motioning her right hand to herself, as if wanting to protect something or looking for how to word what she wanted to say. Sherlock could only hope that she did know of Johns plans and was looking for the right words to let him down. A ridiculous hope since it was evident how smitten they were.

While waiting for dessert, Sherlock noticed suddenly the change in both their faces, the moment had arrived, they had finally summoned the courage to say what was on their minds as they saw the evening draw to an end. They tried to speak at the same time and laughed at the uncomfortable moment. Sherlock didn’t even try not to roll his eyes at that. The woman convinced John to speak first and John started repeating the speech he had practiced before. It was evident it wasn’t going as smooth as he had planned but she didn’t seem to care, her eyes were already shining with the reflection of the light on the forming tears, her smile could not be more sincere or radiant, her hands held firmly John’s and she was trying very hard not to nod before her cue. Finally, John asked and she, of course, said yes. Being as nosy as people in these situations can be, those from the surrounding tables applauded loudly at the woman’s answer and a waiter approached with two glasses of champagne for the happy couple. Sherlock took this as his signal to leave. He gave the waiter enough money to pay both their checks and a very generous tip, explaining him not to tell John who had paid for him, maybe he would attribute Mycroft the action, then he stood up.

However, at that very moment, of course, John had to notice him. He had been looking around the restaurant thanking the patrons who were congratulating him from their own tables and then did a double take when he noticed a tall and very familiar siluette. It was an allucination, of course, it had to be, a ghost of the last time he had been this happy or something. He heard Mary call his name, right, she also had an announcement. He turned to look at her but then saw out of the corner of his eye the mysterious man moving towards the door. He knew that walk, but it wasn’t possible. He had to know. He excused himself with Mary, ‘it’ll be just a second, it’s an emergency’, he said and rushed to stop the man. It must have look weird for him to go to the exit without paying for his meal but no one stopped him. He didn’t even notice until he was in the parking lot looking at the man in the Belstaff coat, a scarf on his neck like it always used to be and the eternal messy curls shining in the moonlight. ‘Sherlock?’ he whispered, afraid and hopeful at the same time. The man stopped and turned. His heart skipped a beat but before he could make a sound, he heard footsteps behind him but refused to look away lest the image would dissapear. He did turn, nonetheless, at Mary’s worried tone. It was real, the two people he had loved the most were looking at him and he was standing in the middle. His brain shut down for a moment, trying to find the words to convey all the questions and the introductions and apologies and demands building up in his chest.

Sherlock looked at the both of them: the man he loved and the woman said man loved in turn. He could see the doubt in John’s eyes, how he was torn between rushing to Sherlock and going back to his date; no, his fiancée. He could see a miriad of emotions on his face. His beautiful eyes always betraying his every thought. He saw her with a potective hand on her belly, on the child John still didn’t know about, looking anxiously at her husband-to-be, begging silently for him to come back to her and not go running after the man she now recognized. He decided to help in the only way he could, by giving John something real to hold on and then react. With his heart pounding like never before, his hands twitching with the need of holding his love, and a smile trying to born on his lips, in an even tone, with just a hint of the joy he actually felt for being in front of him, he managed to say “Hello, John. I’m back".


End file.
